Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (29 page)

Others from the recon
unit moved warily on the flanks.

Fig #57 - Soviet assault on the Argen River, Germany.

A flash of static warned Fusilov and he ordered his driver forward at the same moment that Lieutenant Gregorov got on his case.

“Push up
, Fusilov, push up quicker. Don’t be an old woman.”

Removing his eyes from the binoculars for the briefest of moments, the experienced reconnaissance NCO hawked and spat off to one side, his crew
man judging it a suitable reply to that asshole of an officer.

Gregorov was new and keen to impress, regardless of the effect he had on the men around him. He cared solely for the next rank and glory.

Recon Platoon had already lost two tanks due to his pushing too hard, something that he seemed to neither regret nor remember.

Emerging from behind a building on the edge of UnterWolfhertsweiler, the T70 moved swiftly around a long right-hand bend.

Fusilov suddenly tensed.

“Driver, hard left into the woods.”

Needing no second invitation, the tank slipped down the gears and did a 90° left, heading up a rough track, and into the apparent safety of thick woods.

The radio hissed again.

“What now, Fusilov? I need you pushing forward, not hiding.”

Keying the microphone, Fusilov spoke in the soft tones of men used to spending their time in close proximity to the enemy.

“Comrade Leytenant. The fields on the right show signs of recent vehicle movement. I have taken cover to assess before reporting. Over and out.”

Not quite proper radio procedure
, but good enough for the moment.

Fusilov had an itch he couldn’t scratch, and it wasn’t just the bent grass and damaged hedges.

The binoculars swept the ground, seeking further clues to his unease.

The remainder of the recon platoon had gone to ground, with the exception of Lieutenant Gregorov, who felt the eyes of Be
rzarin himself upon him, and acted accordingly.

Spitting again, the incredulous NCO watched as his commander
’s jeep bounced up the road and moved left, onto the same track he had followed. It slid to a halt next to his T70.

“Serzhant Fusilov, what the fuck do you think you are doing?”

Discarding his first thoughts, Fusilov prepared a properly respectful response.

Unnecessarily, as it happened.

“Serzhant, get your fucking vehicle up that road now. You’re supposed to fucking scout! So fucking scout, not lie around in the shade while better men do the work!”

Not trusting himself to speak
, the NCO saluted and dropped into the turret, ordering the driver to take the light tank forward as slowly as he could manage, staying within the apron of the wood.

The jeep raced away
, taking Gregorov off to harangue another of his tank commanders. Just south of the river, the T70 he had been similarly encouraging, had slipped into a small stand of trees on the riverbank.

By chance, Fusilov cast a glance at the jeep at the moment of detonation.

The yellow light came first, swiftly followed by the hard crump of an explosion.

‘Mines!’

The jeep was flipped onto its top, and was already well alight. The driver, at least Fusilov thought it was the driver, was struggling to escape, pinned under the weight of the wrecked vehicle.

Dropping his glasses to his chest, he used his wider vision to detect the other body,
even now struggling to its feet, some yards away from the site of the mine’s detonation.

‘Gregorov. You damn fool!’

The screams of the trapped driver reached the Sergeant’s ears, and he sought some kind of recognition in his officer’s face; some sign that he would respond to the petrified man.

There was none.

Nor could there have been.

Gregorov was deaf and blind, the former temporary, the latter permanent.

Fig #58
- Argen River Assault - Soviet location codenames.

“Malinky-two-two, this is Drook-one-zero, report, over.”

The deep voice of Antonov, the 112th Guards Tank Battalion commander, was unmistakable. He had seen the event from his position in UnterWolfhertsweiler.

“Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-zero has struck a mine and is out of action. Two-two now in command. Mines to north of main road. Signs of enemy movement in same area, over.”

“Is ‘Voskrenseny’ occupied?”

Both Antonov and Fusilov looked at the ruined old farm, considered indefensible in their planning. It had also been disregarded by the US defenders.

“Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-two, no sign of any defenders. Position is open from my position, over.”

“Received two-two. Is the road clear, over?”

Guards Lieutenant Colonel Antonov was not standing on ceremony.

“Drook-one-zero, Malinky-
two-two. Unknown,” from memory Fusilov summoned the correct map code, “Am moving up to point ‘Panyedelnik’ immediately. Will report, over and out.”

Knowing the rest of the recon unit had heard, Fusilov concentrated on fighting his own vehicle.

Addressing the driver, the NCO talked through his intended route.

“Right then Comrade, bring her forward, stay in the woods until that hedge line, then hard right at speed and tuck in behind the buildings on that junction there,” he indicated the red brick farm buildings at the junction of the 7709 and 7707, despite the fact that the driver could not see him.

The light tank surged forward before the driver brought his charge under full control, nervous of taking the thinly armoured tank into what he considered harm’s way.

The radio crackled into life.

“All units, Drook-one-zero. Strike called on ‘Vtornik’. Do not approach. Out.”

Antonov had decided to flush the game, his heavily armoured IS-II’s already shaking out on the outskirts of UnterWolfhertsweiler.

In under a minute, 120mm mortar shells were falling in and around point ‘Vtornik’.

The building shook all around them, waterfalls of dust cascading over frightened men.

“Steady
guys, steady. They’re just chucking shells. They don’t know we’re here. Just keep your heads down.”

H Company’s senior non-com was one of the oldest in the US Army, having served with Pershing in World War One and now, with Patton, in World War Two and
again in…

‘Whatever the goddamn hell this goddamn latest fuck up is called!’

Winchester Mearns did not have a spare ounce of fat on his five foot ten body, but he had more wrinkles than was considered acceptable for any three men.

His eyes
seemed permanently closed, his facial skin collapsed in around them.

Even when using his beloved BAR
, there was barely a crack between the flesh through which to see.

Nevertheless, he rarely missed, and there was little that evaded his gaze.

“Bazooka team, front and centre!”

The T70 seemed intent on closing his position
, and Mearns was intent on ensuring its silence.

Slapping the
bazooka man on the shoulder, Mearns picked out a position.

“Haul your ass over the road to the pile,” he indicated a stand of felled trunks, some creative infantryman already having constructed an all-round position much like a frontiersman’s cabin without the roof.

“Take him as soon as, but make sure you get the sonofabitch. First shot ok?”

A nod was all he got, the
two-man team already steeling themselves to run the gauntlet of mortar shells.

Mearns clicked his fingers at two riflemen.

“Stand ready as back up if I holler.”

Again, Mearns received no reply, his men trained up to the hilt and confident in their senior man.

Checking on the T70, and noting it had slowed, he gave the word.

“Move out.”

The bazooka team slipped swiftly out of the ruined front door, and was safely hidden in the wooden redoubt within seconds.

The tank moved from right to left as Mearns watched, turning just a few yards short of the road
, and facing the red brick farmhouse in which the US troops were posted.

“All units, Druck-zero-one
, cease fire on ‘Panyedelnik’. Out.”

‘I swear I saw movement.’

“Do you see anything?”

The driver’s response was immediate.

“No, Comrade Serzhant, nothing.”

Not satisfied, Fusilov considered sending a couple of shells into the ruined farmhouse.

The radio blared loudly in his ear, a stiff reminder of his mission from Antonov dissuading him.

The T70 moved slowly forward.

A slap on the gunner’s back indicated that the loader had connected up the rocket grenade, and the bazooka was ready to fire.

The M9 fired a 2.39”
diameter M6A3 hollow-charge shell, capable of penetrating anything up to 102mm of armour.

The front armour of the T70 was 60mm at best, and that on the front of the turret only.

Coolly following the track of his target, the gunner aimed for the spot immediately below the driver’s hatch, where the armour was thinner.

The driver died instantly.

Fusilov felt the wave of pain as pieces of the tank and driver were propelled into him, bone and metal fragments penetrating his lower limbs in a hundred places.

He keyed the radio as he triggered the machine-gun, his tracers reaching out and into the little pile of wood he had so stupidly failed to spot.

Both men and bazooka were struck, the DT machine-gun fatally defeating the cover as the two men hugged the earth.

“Malinky-two-two, enemy infantry in ‘
Voskresenye’, strength unknown. Am knocked out and abandoning. Out.”

As if to emphasise his words, flames started to lick out of the drivers hatch
, blown open by the blast. The heat build up inside the stricken light tank gave Fusilov all the encouragement he needed.

Fusilov grabbed the edg
e of the turret and pulled, but his legs were unable to push upwards.

Panic started to seize him, and small animal like sounds accompanied e
ach exertion, sounds that grew in their intensity, urgency, and pitch. His strength left him, as each effort drained him of more of his reserves, and the blood flowed freely from ruined legs.

“Poor commie bastard.”

Master Sergeant Mearns spoke to no one in particular, the sight of the hands urgent scrabbling at the turret ring betraying the struggle going on out of sight.